


Worthwhile

by FidgetyWriter



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidgetyWriter/pseuds/FidgetyWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Carver, of all people, reminds his sister she's not a lost cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worthwhile

**Author's Note:**

> Brief mentions of sex work, but I didn't tag it non-con as it is consensual. Just a heads up if that sort of thing bothers you!

Neither Hawke sibling is overly willing to leave The Hanged Man. Molly supposes life is at a bad point when a pub that smells of piss and bad ale (sometimes they’re indistinguishable from one another) seems more inviting than the place you call home.  
But neither can come up with any more valid reasons to stay. Aveline left over an hour ago (after generously treating the two of them to dinner with her regular salary from the Guard), and the bartender cut Carver off about as long ago. Leandra will stay up worrying about them, and walking around Lowtown after dark is simply asking for disaster.

Still, Molly finds herself unwilling to return to Gamlen’s shithole in the slums without something to show for her time spent out. She sends Carver on ahead, chuckling lightly at his obvious stumbles (“I’m not drunk!” he insists), and assures him she’ll be home soon: just a quick errand, that’s all.

She knows where to find them, having prowled enough back alleys and collapsing underground tunnels in her service to Athenril. All of them are equal in the anonymity of nighttime: the nobleman who snuck away from his wife and estate will find the same girls and the same services as the Templar apprentice or the sewer rat. They’re not picky; she muses as she pulls the hood of her cloak up to shield her face from the winter night air. This is no Blooming Rose.

The noblemen always seem lost down here; unsure of what to do when whatever service or item they require isn’t being rushed to them on silver platter and bended knee. Molly spots him easily as he’s hovering awkwardly in the direct light of a nearby torch. She’s seen him around before; thinks he’s got an estate up in Hightown with that Orlesian wife who laughs through her nose at all the lowtowners. It doesn’t matter.

“Five silver,” she tells him, passing nonchalantly and pulling off the cloak hood to shake her chestnut hair free.

He nods, a flicker of a grin creeping up to his lips, and follows her down the stone stairwell into the darkness of a back alley. 

“A mage?” he asks, eyeing the staff strapped to her back, suspiciously.

“No,” she lies. “Just a walking stick.”

Molly goes to her “methodic place” as her father used to jokingly call it. It worked well when you were training to use magic in secret: block out emotion and simply think about the objective at hand. Turned out, she discovered years later, it worked when you had to do shit you didn’t want to. And it’s easier to think about stripping your boots and pants off if you just think about what your hands are doing and not the fact that you’re about to fuck a stranger for barely enough to buy some groceries for that week.  
She’s grateful he seems more than happy to do this from behind so she won’t have to look at his wretched face or pretend to enjoy herself. She could do without the rambling commentary on how pretty she is and how he’s never done this before: does she think the Maker is willing to forgive a sin like this if he’s only doing it because his wife refuses to share his bed lately? He’s also too stupid to realize the noise she makes when he enters her is not one of pleasure and takes that as motivation to sink deeper until she’s biting her hand against the pain.

She thinks of other, happier things, like the time she and Bethany went to that Andrastian festival on the border of Orlais where everything was a grand party. It’s easily one of her favorite memories of the sister she misses more than she dares vocalize around her brother and mother, and the recollection of Bethany laughing hysterically as she jokingly attempted to stick gum in Molly’s hair as Molly dodged her attempts in an over-exaggerated manner is much nicer than her free palm scraping against the brick wall.

But it’s over quickly enough, and the nobleman drops the 5 silvers in her hand and vanishes. She lets the coins fall into the side of her boot as she straps it back on and does her best to ignore the feeling of the end result of his pleasure running down the inside of her thigh. She can ask Tomwise in the morning for something to ensure no pitiful bastard results from this encounter.

She hurries home, wondering if Leandra will have stayed up to fuss over her whereabouts this evening, but her luck holds when she arrives at the little hole in Lowtown. Her mother has gone to bed, Gamlen reports when she steps inside and pulls off her cloak. Carver is sitting with his forehead pressed to the table, laughing at some unknown joke.

Molly fills the pot in the corner with cold water and retreats into the tiny side closet. She pulls off her boots and the coins spill out, and she starts to cry because she’s just sold her body for five fucking pieces of silver when the girls at The Blooming Rose don’t have to give someone the time of day unless they’re presented with a gold sovereign. It’s all horrible. Gamlen can’t afford to feed all of them, and her and Carver’s work with Athenril only covers the coin it took to get them into Kirkwall. Briefly, and not for the first time, she wishes she could trade places with Bethany. Leandra would be happier if her youngest daughter were here.

The closet door flies open, and Molly wheels back, yelling and yanking her cloak up to cover her partially exposed body.

“Andraste’s tits, Carver, I’m half-naked!”

He shuts the door quickly, but she hears him loitering just on the other side.

“Why are you in the closet?” he asks, his words a little slurred by the alcohol.

“I’m trying to wash off—“

“I heard you crying.”

Molly takes a deep breath to steady herself. She cannot handle this becoming a big commotion. She just needs ten damn minutes to wash the feeling of that nobleman off of her.

“I’m fine,” she insists. “Leave me alone.”

“I heard you crying,” he repeats stupidly. “What took you so long to come home?”

She pulls her pants down past her knees and dabs disgustedly at the nobleman’s aftermath. The cold water feels good on her thigh: a reminder that nobody else is touching her anymore.

“Nothing. I just did a tiny errand for…someone. I know we needed some money for food this wek.”

She pulls her pants back up over her hips, which are starting to become a little sore where the nobleman had held onto her roughly. Gathering up the coins from the floor, she uses her other hand to run the other side of the rag over her face to wipe away any hint of tears. She feels torn between sleeping or not: it would do her good…but only if she doesn’t dream about Bethany or the Blight still ravaging her old home.

Molly opens the door and it nearly smacks Carver full on in the face because he’s standing too close. He stumbles backward a little and grabs at the door to steady himself, but his eyes are clear and focused on his sister.

“If Athenril had work you should have told me,” he snaps. “Or did she ask just for you again?”

“It wasn’t Athenril,” she replies testily, shoving past him to step outside and dump out the dirty water. 

He follows as she props the front door open and tips the bucket over the side of the railing leading up to Gamlen’s home.

“Molly…” he says.

She can hear the comprehension dawning in his voice, and she finds she cannot turn and face his realization.

“Molly, you didn’t.”

Angrily, she bites her lip as she dangles the bucket to drip over the stairs.

“It’s fine,” she finally says, her voice a little husky. “Look, it’ll get us groceries for this week, and I know—“

Carver grabs her arm roughly and spins her around to face him. She holds his gaze despite her overwhelming urge to look away in shame.

“Why would you do that?” he demands. “We’d find another way. You deserve better than slumming around Lowtown picking up men you don’t even know—“

“Oh, I deserve better?” she asks, and it comes out as an angry shriek. “Then you must set some low fucking standards for yourself, Carver, since you’re always whining about being in my shadow. There is no fucking shadow. Because you’re right. I’m the one slinking around Lowtown fucking strangers for barely enough to feed the four of us while you get drunk on Aveline’s money and cry about how much you hate me!”

Molly can hear the wind blowing the shingles of their roof and the chirping of some nearby birds settling down for the night in the agonizing silence that follows. She regrets her words instantly—she can’t handle another fight right now.

“I’m sorry—“ she begins.

“No, Carver interrupts. “Don’t. I just…don’t do that anymore. Please. I couldn’t…I don’t know what…please. You’re my sister, and I don’t want you to get robbed or murdered or…”

“Carver, I—“

“Please. Promise me. You’re worth more than food.”

That brings a tiny smile to her lips. How noble of him to admit his only surviving sibling is worth more than some groceries.

“Okay,” she agrees, mostly to stop him from looking so damn pitiful. 

But he’s right…the risk is high for very little gain. And she hates it…Maker, she hates it. They’ll figure something out surely. If all else fails, they can bully Gamlen to cough up the money they know he’s been hiding away.

Carver releases her arm and pats her shoulder rather clumsily.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to go lie down.”

“Probably a good decision.”

He turns and takes a few steps back into the house. Molly watches him go as she shakes out the last few droplets of water in the bucket.

“Carver?” she says.

“Don’t,” he tells her again. “Don’t get sappy on me, Sister, you know it makes me ill.”

“I was just going to remind you that you’re a little shit.”

“You’d be useless without me,” he scoffs.

She stays outside in the cold for a few more minutes after Carver has disappeared into the back room, hating that he’s correct in this.


End file.
